


A Taste of Ginger

by RuinsPlume



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dirty Talk, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Spanking, They live!AU, Threesome - M/M/M, rare trio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 14:42:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8756620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuinsPlume/pseuds/RuinsPlume
Summary: Remus and Sirius need to spice things up.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Llaeyro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llaeyro/gifts).



> Written for r/s small gifts 2016. Thanks to Shiftylinguini for the beta; thanks to Luminousgloom for help with the Britpick. And thanks to Llaeyro for the prompt and the wild card challenge (“trying something new” and “growing older together”), along with your list of likes, which I found quite inspiring!  
> ETA: As of March 2018 this fic is still the ONLY tagged Remus/Sirius/Charlie trio on all of AO3! So if you're looking for a *really* rare pair, you've come to the right fic.

A Taste of Ginger

  


Charlie has obviously interrupted something. When he pushes the door of the motorcycle shop open a bell tinkles, and the two men standing behind the counter step away from each other a bit too rapidly. 

Sirius and Remus. Charlie hasn’t seen either of them in nearly ten years, but it’s obvious that they were either in the midst of a kiss or an argument: Sirius’s face is flushed, and Remus’s hair—which is as thick as ever, but has gone completely silver—is more than a little rumpled. 

Remus recognizes him first. “Charlie,” he says warmly, “you got my owl.”

Charlie almost asks, _Did I come at a bad time?_ He’s been out of England so long now that he’s traded what was left of his English reticence for the European candor he much prefers. But Remus is a bloke who’ll lie to you about how he takes his fucking tea, so Charlie lets it go. Then Remus comes forward to hug him, and Charlie remembers that under all that respectable tweed lurks a _furnace_ —ironclad and burning. After a Romanian autumn of freezing his arse off in the poorly-heated dragon reserve, a hug like that feels damn good.

“Charlie fucking Weasley,” Sirius drawls, coming around from behind the counter and kissing Charlie on the cheek.

“Glad you remember my middle name,” Charlie answers tartly, thinking, suddenly, of that afternoon he and Sirius had at Grimmauld Place during the war.

“I’ve never forgotten it,” Sirius grins.

“And that,” Remus says, “is saying something. Sirius’s memory has suffered some rather large gaps—”

“—between Azkaban and then two years behind the Veil—” Sirius puts in helpfully.

“—so when he says he hasn’t forgotten, Charlie, you should feel nothing less than honored.” And Remus isn’t quite smiling, but his lips twitch. Charlie feels slightly relieved. Remus knows about it then, and doesn’t mind. A couple of _decades_ ago, that little indiscretion was. Fuck, they’re old.

Remus and Sirius are looking at each other now, with something passing between them that makes Charlie’s heart hurt a bit. In the years since he last saw them, not only has he missed seeing _them_ , he realizes, he’s missed seeing this: what they have together. Living on the dragon preserve with a constantly changing rotation of ever-younger staff, Charlie has missed knowing old married queers, men who can look at each other the way his parents do sometimes. With a thousand micro-expressions zinging between them, a private language laid down by years and years of becoming fluent in another person. A partner. It was never what he imagined for himself; he knows he hasn’t got the temperament for it. And yet—sometimes he wishes he had family like this, that’s all.

His eyes slide over Sirius. At fifty-whatever, his hair is still black, and maybe he’s charmed it that way, but it suits him. And his face is still beautiful, and—Charlie realizes with some surprise—it’s not despite his aging, but because of it. The lines around Sirius’s eyes only serve to accent their seductive intensity (which has not lessened one iota), and those legendary cheekbones are sharper than ever in his face, but with none of the shadowy horror that clung to him after Azkaban.

Remus looks good too. As always, he’s wearing boring wool everything, but his clothes fit him now, and beneath that thick, thick shock of silver hair (was his hair always so thick?) his hazel eyes are arresting, with that crazy amber color flared around the pupil. In the years he’s been gone, Charlie had forgotten Remus’s eyes, remembering only the haggard look of the war years: the shabbiness, the thinness, the scars. The scars are still there, of course, including the bad one on his neck from Dolohov. But now that Remus has been well-fed and cared for for years, his scars appear not pitiful but...rugged. Enticing. All right, fine: Remus Lupin looks fucking fit as hell. A silver wolf in Harris Tweed, which Charlie wouldn’t mind ripping right off him.

“I hear you two got married,” Charlie says, more to remind himself of the fact.

“Technically speaking,” Remus says, “we eloped.”

“That means he carried me off on his back,” Sirius clarifies.

“I believe you were on _your_ back that day, Padfoot.”

“And every day, of course.”

“Same old Sirius,” Charlie ventures.

Sirius grins again, slow and sexy as ever, holding Charlie’s gaze to include him in their banter. Charlie feels that grin, that gaze, heat up his groin. He glances guiltily over at Remus, and is startled to see that Remus is watching him intently. With an expression Charlie can’t place at first. And then maybe he does place it.  

Well, Godric’s balls.

The action around the compound in Romania is all young things—so young, in fact, that in the last few years, Charlie’s often gone without, simply because he can’t find the patience anymore for twinks barely twenty. Their nervy arrogance, their fumbling insecurities, have begun to outweigh the other pleasures youth can offer. It’s been a long time since Charlie’s been on the receiving end of a look like the one Remus has just given him. A look from a bloke old enough to know, _really_ know, what he’s looking at. A bloke who’s been around long enough to look at Charlie and understand—by his tattoos, his clothes, and his burn scars; by the way he carries himself; by his eyes—who Charlie is and what he can give. Now Charlie’s eyes meet Remus’s, and he holds the gaze of those strangely-colored irises just as he would the gaze of a hackled dragon: with the steady dominance that is his essence.

Remus gazes evenly back.

Sirius lets out a long and audible breath and reaches forward to squeeze Remus’s hand. When Charlie turns to look at him, Sirius lifts his other hand and lays his palm gently against Charlie’s jaw.

“Come see our place,” he says, and Charlie, suddenly overwhelmed by the directness, the gentleness, the _familiarity_ , can only nod.

And that settles it: Charlie’s going to be late for his Sunday roast at the Burrow.

~

“If you’d given _any_ indication in your owl,” Charlie gasps at last, breaking Sirius’s kiss and turning to Remus, “I’d have brought wine. Chocolates. Something.” They’ve Apparated Charlie into their flat with his arms linked between theirs, a situation Sirius took advantage of by launching himself at Charlie’s mouth as soon as they landed.

“Owls can be intercepted,” Remus says, putting his arms around Sirius from behind and forcibly pulling him back. “Padfoot, calm _down_.” They haven’t even sat down yet, although Sirius has nearly _fallen_ down several times. (“Veil vertigo,” Remus explained, catching Sirius neatly under the arms. “All the Veil survivors have it.”)

“Intercepted owls?” Sirius cocks a dubious eyebrow at Remus. “The war’s been over for a while now, love, and besides—suppose someone _had_ intercepted an owl that was more, ah, explicit? I don’t know if it’s occurred to you, Moony, but when we got married—in _addition_ to all the tax breaks and legal rights, including, if you outlive me, your being able to inherit what’s left of the sodding Black fortune—in addition to all that, when we got married, it also sent a very clear message to the world that you and I are...you know.” Sirius drops his voice to a stage whisper. “ _Fucking_.” He grins at Charlie. “In a state-sanctioned pairing of domestic bliss, no less.”

“So I see.” Charlie looks around the small, bright sitting room. Plants on the windowsills, a thick red rug on the floor, a modern but squishy-looking sofa that is long enough and wide enough to sleep on. It is nothing like Grimmauld Place.

Sirius is pressed up against Charlie so closely that Charlie can feel the heat of his chest through his open leather jacket. Yet the owl Remus sent to Romania a fortnight ago hadn’t been even remotely suggestive:  

_We saw Arthur last week—perhaps you know Sirius made him a flying motorcycle for his 65 th. Ginny and George’s gift, and your mum’s apoplexy. He brought it in for a tune-up and mentioned you’ll be in England for the holidays. Sirius and I would love to see your ginger head in person before it’s quite as grey as mine, so please come visit. Sirius’s bike shop is called Faster and is just inside Knockturn. And if you find it closed—though that’s unlikely as Sirius is quite busy with orders—we have a flat in Brighton, where I work at home most days._

Certainly nothing to indicate an invitation to a three-way, but that’s Remus, isn’t it: all buttoned-up exterior. Charlie might have guessed, from the total absence of innuendo, that it was nothing _but_ innuendo. “The ginger’s mostly gone, I’m afraid,” he says to Remus, running his hand over his bare scalp. He’s been shaving it for years, ever since he began balding.

“I’m sure you’re still ginger _somewhere_ ,” Sirius says playfully, working his hand free from Remus’s half-hearted grip and hooking a finger through one of Charlie’s belt loops. “Now, if _I’d_ sent you the owl, it would have been entirely straightforward. Like this: ‘Dear Charlie. We heard you’ll be in England for the hols. Remus always gets in an awful funk come December, which he truly needs to snap out of so he can get back to making _my_ Christmas a happy one. We’ve agreed that what he needs is a really good top, so of course we thought of you. Would you oblige us? I’ll play too. Love, Padfoot.’”

“Ah.” Charlie feels the heat spread through his groin again. “Well.” He glances at Remus, whose face betrays nothing, of course. It’s always been fucking impossible to tell what Remus Lupin is thinking. “If you’d sent _that_ owl, I’d have brought toys.”

“We have toys.” Sirius is positively smirking.

“Let’s sit,” Charlie suggests, because the three of them are still standing awkwardly in the middle of the sitting room, huddled together like people sharing an umbrella. Sirius leads them to the sofa, still lurching a bit from the vertigo. Charlie sits last, making sure Remus is in the middle. “What were you two doing when I came into the shop?” he asks, just to get things moving. “It looked as though I’d interrupted something.”

Sirius throws his legs across both their laps. “Nothing as pleasant as what you’re imagining. We were having a row about holiday decorations.” He cocks his head and looks up at Charlie from under his lashes, a gesture Charlie remembers from years ago. “Because while _some_ of us try to compensate for our shitty childhoods by making the hols absolutely perfect and celebrating every possible moment of them—that would be me, by the way— _others_ of us, Remus John Lupin, feel compelled to reenact the shite of their formative years by insisting on spending _all_ of December being as miserable as possible.” He reaches across Remus to stroke Charlie’s denim-covered thigh. “I’ve been to a Mind Healer since you saw me last, Charlie; can you tell?”

“I’m not _trying_ to be miserable.” Remus flops forward across Sirius’s legs. “I just don’t like holiday fuss.”

Sirius begins to rub Remus’s neck. “Translation, for Charlie’s benefit: come December, Moony goes and crawls right inside in a book and stays there sulking; and if you ask him to do something even slightly festive, like charm tiny illuminated motorcycles to fly about the anteroom of Faster, or attend a Christmas party at Harry and Draco’s, or even stop moping long enough to shag his sodding _husband_ , he just growls and retreats further into the page bindings. And then sometime after New Year’s, when everyone else has finally gone back to work, hungover and exhausted, he slips out from his book like a pressed flower, all colorless and flat, and fusses at the rest of us for being slags.”

“Translation, for Charlie’s benefit,” Remus retorts, sitting up straight again and shrugging off Sirius’s hand, “Moony doesn’t like the hols because he used to spend them watching his parents sit home weeping--and trying to hide it, which they were not successful at--weeping because their son was a Dark Creature they couldn't take anywhere in public because he might be spat on, or called filthy names, or taken away and _euthanized_. And Moony hates Christmas lights—even flying motorcycle ones, Padfoot—because they attempt to enforce a twee cheerfulness he is _not feeling_. And as to Christmas itself, although he appreciates the example of the human who inspired it, he does not recognize its current incarnation as an exercise in capitalist masturbation, not least because he is both a socialist and a _pagan_.”

This last bit is delivered showing quite a lot of teeth.

“Look at me, both of you,” Charlie says suddenly, jumping off the sofa and facing them. He’s using the voice he reserves for out-of-line employees, and it appears to work just as well in this flat as it does in his office in Romania: their heads swivel up, RemusandSirius, both of them looking at him like a pair of newly-hired dragon wranglers who’ve just bollixed up their first assignment.

Charlie Vanishes his dragonhide vest, along with the white Oxford under it (worn as a concession to his mother, back when he thought he’d be spending Sunday afternoon at the Burrow). He drops forward on the sofa, one knee between Remus’s legs and the other between Sirius’s, crowding them back against the cushions and almost pressing against their groins. They want a top? He’ll give them one. He watches as their eyes range over his bare chest, whose very impressive pecs would command admiration even without the tattoos, or the burn scars, or the steel barbells through each of his nipples. He’s got their full attention now, and God, he loves being the boss.

“Suck these,” he commands.

Sirius is on him at once, folding his lips around the barbell’s spheres, his tongue flicking the nipple forward until he can take it between his teeth and bite just enough to keep it there as he latches his mouth against Charlie’s chest and sucks in.

Perfect. The zing of pleasure bursts from Charlie in another command: “You too, Professor.”

But Remus doesn’t move. Remus cocks his head to one side and regards Charlie for a long moment, this handsome man in his late fifties whose wildly-colored eyes give up nothing. “I’ve always liked you, Charlie,” he says finally. Bland as porridge. And _not_ fucking obeying.

“I like you too,” Charlie says, his gaze unwavering. “But are you going to do what I say? Or am I going to have to make you?” He notes with satisfaction that although Remus’s face remains impassive, his hips twitch ever so slightly.

“I think you’re going to have to make me,” Remus answers.

Sirius pulls off Charlie’s nipple and gazes up at him. “I want to see that,” he murmurs, and reaches out to cup Charlie’s cock through his jeans. Charlie bats his hand away and does his best to ignore him, which isn’t easy, because Sirius Black is the pushiest, mouthiest, and sexiest bottom Charlie’s ever met, and he’s met a few. He’d like to slap that luscious pout just to see Sirius’s cock swell in response, and hear him moan in that way Charlie still remembers. An ancient image of Sirius on his knees at Grimmauld Place flits enticingly through his mind, but he’s been invited here to top Remus. It’s time to get going.

“I’ll make you, then,” he agrees. He rests one hand on Remus’s shoulder, the nubbly wool soft beneath Charlie’s roughened palms. “Wands or hands?” he asks.

“Hands.”

“Right, then,” Charlie says, immediately sliding his hands under Remus’s armpits and yanking him up off the sofa. Remus, who hadn’t looked even slightly ready, is ready after all; he gives Charlie all his weight, forcing Charlie to step backward so that he stumbles, off-balance. Remus seizes the advantage and throws himself against Charlie’s chest, sending both of them down onto the parlor rug with a crash. Now on his back, Charlie butts his head into Remus’s sternum, forcing him sideways. They wrestle a few minutes, and Christ, Charlie hopes that ten years from now he’s as strong as Remus is. Charlie _is_ the stronger one, but not by much, especially given that he’s nearly ten years younger and wrangles dragons for a living.

When he finally gets Remus pinned beneath him, both of them are red-faced and panting. Charlie sits up, straddling Remus, and grinds down against him. Remus is hard inside his wool trousers, and the feel of his erection against Charlie’s arse sets off a flood of satisfaction inside him. Charlie has been hard since they arrived, but this evidence—that he’s playing this right, that it’s working for Remus—makes him feel even more turned on.

“Sirius,” Charlie says, without taking his eyes from Remus’s face, “strip him.”

“Moony?” Sirius looks at Remus for confirmation.

“I’m giving the orders here,” Charlie says. “Are you with me?”

“ _Divesteum_ ,” Sirius mutters.

Remus’s expression does not change, save for a slight tightening around the mouth as the spell rushes over him and Vanishes his clothes. Remus’s chest hair is as thick and silver as the hair on his head. Charlie raises himself up onto his knees and glances down for a better view of what’s beneath him. And holy shit. After seeing Bill post-bite, Charlie had thought that the rumors about werewolves were just talk. But Bill was a fully-developed adult when he was turned; perhaps that’s the difference. Because this? Jesus fucking Slytherin Christ.

Suddenly Charlie’s falling sideways, landing hard on his elbow as Remus lunges up, taking advantage of Charlie’s slack-jawed admiration of his cock to free himself. They struggle, Remus throwing his full weight on top of Charlie, and it’s almost too much, Remus naked on top of him, pressing against him, all that skin and hair and those scars and their mingling sweat, all of it going straight to Charlie’s cock—and Sirius, goddamn it, has got his hand down his opened jeans and is tossing off. Resisting the urge to grab Remus’s bare arse and just pull him down on top of him, Charlie manages to wrestle Remus onto his back again, this time making sure his arms are pinned too. Charlie jerks his head at Sirius. “Over here,” he snaps, and for once Sirius behaves and hops to Charlie’s side. “Good boy,” Charlie says. “Now stop wanking, and Vanish your clothes. Then go sit at his head and keep him still.”

Another Divesteum, and Sirius scoots naked across the rug, positioning himself above Remus’s head. His prison tattoos are dark against his pale skin, and his erect cock presses against the top of Remus’s head, where everything but the sheathed tip is lost in that thicket of silver hair. Charlie wouldn’t mind seeing Sirius come all over _that_.

He glances down at himself, still clothed from the waist down in denims and dragonhide shitkickers. Should he take them off? They’re not the most comfortable boots for kneeling over someone in, and he’s so hard in his jeans that his cock is fucking _hurting_. But being the only one not naked adds a bit more to his status, a boost he feels he needs. Besides, he knows he looks fantastic. Fine, he’ll leave the boots and denims on.

He turns his attention back to Remus, naked and sweating beneath him. Remus, with his fucking nine-inch erection pressing into Charlie’s arse. He places his index finger on Remus’s lower lip, distending it until he can touch the wetness inside. “Now then,” he croons, watching Remus intently. Remus doesn’t make a sound, or blink, even. But his pupils dilate a bit at Charlie’s touch, nearly blotting out the amber. Charlie runs his wet finger down Remus’s scarred chest, stroking into that thatch of silver hair just as he would stroke an agitated dragon. “Now then, werewolf.”

Remus blinks once.

Charlie raises himself up on his knees, reaches behind himself to cup his hand around that massive cock. Fistful of iron, it is, iron sheathed in burning silk, and _fuck_ , he wants to stroke it. But he doesn’t. Neither of them has earned that yet.

Remus’s teeth come to rest hard in his lower lip. Charlie holds his hand still, trying to feel what Remus needs. With dragons, he lets his instincts take over once he’s got his hands on them, and his hands are usually right. But Remus doesn’t give up anything.

“Talk to me,” Charlie says gently after a moment.

“All year he takes good care of me,” Sirius begins.

“Did I fucking ask you? Shut _up_ , Padfoot.” Sirius _really_ wants to be smacked into place, that’s the message Charlie’s getting here. But this is Remus’s party, and Charlie’s not going to be distracted. “Remus?” Charlie prompts. He resists the urge to slide his callused hand down over the long—fucking _long_ —shaft of twitching, silky muscle in his fist.

“What Sirius said.” Remus answers slowly, nothing in his voice conveying that his prick is rock-hard in another man’s hand. “I do take care of him. I love him with all my soul. He’s mine forever. Not a day goes by that I don’t show it. And—” his voice quavers just for a second. He pauses, and closes his eyes, then resumes. “One way I show it is how I top him. When he needs it, I...I know how. I know how to work him over until he can’t see. Until he doesn’t know his own name anymore unless I call it. I can break him down until he’s a million pieces of nobody and then put him back together so well that each time I do it, one more crack in him is healed up for good.” Remus opens his eyes again. “I’m not boasting, Charlie. It’s just—it’s something I do for him.” Remus flutters his fingers below where Charlie’s thigh pins his arm against his side.

Sirius sees the movement too. “Let Moony’s hand up, please,” he says. “I’ll keep track of it.” when Charlie does, Sirius takes Remus’s huge scarred hand in his own.

“But every winter I get lost,” Remus continues softly. “And I—for a while I just can’t. Can’t even make love. And I can’t give Sirius what he needs.”

“But you still want to.”

“Yes. Not just for Sirius. For me. I—I need that too. And I think—we thought—Padfoot, can you...?”

Charlie holds up his hand, silencing Sirius before he can start running his mouth. “I get it,” he says. He drags his finger down Remus’s throat again, down through the silver forest between his pectorals, down to the base of his sternum where the skin is rough with old scars. “You want someone to give you a taste of what you do for Sirius. To break you down, let you out again.”

Remus nods, and there it is: the wolf on his face. The hunger, showing itself just for an instant. Charlie’s still holding Remus’s prick with his other hand, and now he allows himself one small squeeze. Remus’s mouth tightens.

“You don’t know how to get there,” Charlie continues. “Not with Sirius, anyway. Sirius hasn’t got enough control for the job. Manipulative abilities, yes, but not the self-cont—”

“I wouldn’t call myself ma _nip_ ulative, Charlie, I’d say I’m entic—”  

Quick as a snitch, and without looking away from Remus, Charlie’s left hand flicks out and slaps Sirius lightly on the cheek. “Sirius can’t top you,” he finishes.

“I wouldn’t dare try,” Sirius murmurs sweetly, both cheeks flushing pink.

Charlie raises one eyebrow at Sirius, daring him to speak out of turn again. When Sirius drops his eyes, Charlie turns his attention back to Remus and continues. “You need to stay in control—I get that. Anyone who’s known you for ten minutes gets that. It’s fine. It’s good. So here’s what we’re going to do.”

He pauses. He leans down over Remus and for the first time kisses him. Lightly, on the mouth. Remus answers hot and full of teeth and with a low growl. But then—restraint. Remus folds his tongue away.

“I’m going to work you over,” Charlie says, still close. “With my hands. But I won’t tie you up, or put you in cuffs, or make Sirius hold you down. Because _you_ —” he pauses a moment, to make sure both of them are listening. “ _You_ are going to hold still for me, Remus. As in not moving. At all. I’m going to let you show me just how much control you have.”

Remus’s forehead creases, uncreases, and then furrows again, his mouth slackening just a little. Charlie leans over him until he can smell Remus’s neck, still flushed from their wrestling. Tea leaves and scotch and shaving soap and the sweat of his silver pelt. Charlie permits himself one more squeeze of the iron-hard cock in his hand. “Do you think you can do that for me?” Charlie asks.

And the hunger is right there again, not a fleeting wolf shadow of here-then-gone. Just hunger. In Remus’s eyes, in the crease in his brow, in his mouth opened just a little. For this. There’s—fucking Christ—a _vulnerability_ in it. And on impenetrable Remus Lupin, that’s one of the hottest things Charlie’s ever seen. He watches Remus inhale slowly.

“You’re asking me if I can hold still?” Remus repeats. “Yes.”

“Get on all fours, then.” Charlie tries not to sound breathless. He needs to get Remus out from under him, and Remus’s cock out of his fist, before he starts acting like Sirius and just mauls him.

As Remus gets into position, Charlie considers what to do with Sirius. Sirius needs to be included—he’s a dog, for Christ’s sake; he needs to feel useful. “Sirius,” he decides aloud, “I want you under Remus. On your back. Your face right under his cock, which you are _not_ going to touch. Or suck.”

Sirius slips under Remus’s raised torso, lithe as ever, positioning himself so that the head of Remus’s cock rests in the hollow of Sirius’s throat, so that Remus’s balls dangle not two inches above Sirius’s mouth.

“Don’t touch that either,” Charlie tells Sirius, who is eyeing Remus’s sac. Which is well worth eyeing—the skin wrinkled tight with arousal, the curling silver hairs almost shining against the darker flesh. “Understand?”

Sirius licks his lips and nods.

“Good boy.” Charlie kneels beside them. He runs one callused hand down Remus’s back, letting Remus feel him. His palms are like sandpaper, he knows. After twenty-plus years of dragons, he’s had too many lacerations, too many burns, too many ruined pairs of gloves. He rubs his hand in circles over Remus’s arse to let him know what’s coming, and it’s smooth, so smooth against Charlie’s ruined palms. He allows himself just one cupping of Remus’s balls, just to feel their solid weight, their delicate fur. Then Charlie strokes his thighs, feeling the hair there rise to his touch. His eyes meet Sirius’s, lying on his back beneath Remus’s legs. Then Charlie raises his hand and brings it down hard against Remus’s arse.

Remus gasps, tenses. Charlie spanks him again, the burn in his palm going straight to his cock. God, it’s good. The soft skin under him, and the iron core of will beneath the flesh and muscle. Charlie hits him again, and then begins alternating arse cheeks.

Sirius is breathing hard through his mouth, and his breath must be hot on Remus’s cock, but Sirius does not touch, and Remus does not move. Charlie varies the rhythm, the location. Left cheek, right cheek, tops of thighs. Charlie’s palms are as hard as a pair of dragonhide gloves, but they begin to sting as Remus’s arse first pinks, then reddens.

With his left hand, Charlie reaches out and takes a handful of Remus’s beautiful silver hair in his fist, drawing his head up. Remus’s face is flushed, but still managing to look _almost_ impassive. Yet when their eyes meet, the hunger ripples across Remus’s face again. His forehead, his mouth, his eyes locked on Charlie. Wanting more. But he won’t beg, won’t ask. Charlie spanks him again, as hard as he can with one fist in his hair. “Just feel me,” Charlie tells him. And spanks him again. “Feel it go straight to your cock.” And again. “You make me so hard when I spank you.”

And that earns Charlie Remus’s first moan. “I’m so hard I’m aching,” Charlie continues, speaking between blows. “And so is Sirius.” _Again again again_. “His cock...is right under...your chin.” Charlie stops spanking a moment, leans in until his lips are at Remus’s ear. “Sirius wants you to drop your head and take his cock in your mouth,” Charlie whispers. “He wants it so much he’s leaking. I can see it, his cock is out of the sheath, and he’s wet at the tip. All for you, Remus. And in a moment, I’m going to let go of your head. But you’re not going to so much as _look_ at that cock. You’re going to keep looking up at me.”

Sirius makes a low noise in his throat, guttural and choked with desire, as Charlie releases Remus’s hair. Remus, breathing through his mouth now, keeps his head up and back, his eyes on Charlie beside him.

Charlie spanks him some more, using both hands. His palms are burning, and Remus’s arse is a beautiful shade of dark rose. “Sirius wants you to suck him, Remus,” he says between smacks. “He wants you to drop your head and suck him. And he wants to suck you. You can feel his breath on your cock, can’t you? Heating it up? You’re damp with it, aren’t you? You want his hot mouth around your cock. And Sirius is dying to suck it.” Remus’s eyes on Charlie are steady but burning, the amber flaring gold. His mouth—red, open—is panting. But he holds still.

“Are you hungry for us, Remus?”

“Ye-yes,” Remus grits out. “Charlie.”

_Again again again._

“Keep looking at me. We’re hungry for you. For your pleasure.”

Another moan slips free of Remus as he strains to hold his head up and back. A thin sheen of sweat has broken out on his forehead, stray locks of silver hair sticking to the skin.

“Do you want Remus’s cock in your mouth, Padfoot?”

“Fuck, yeah. Please.” Sirius bites his lip, and to his credit, waits.

Charlie concentrates on Remus’s right arse cheek. Hard, _hard_ for that smooth skin, for those taut muscles. Hard for the animal stillness straining inside this powerful man on all fours. Hard for the roughening, the wearing down.

“You want Sirius to suck you, baby?”

“Huh— _fuck_.” Remus’s voice is rough, unsteady. “Ye—yeah.”

“Sirius. Take him in your mouth.”

A tremor ripples through Remus, and it’s one of the prettiest things Charlie’s ever seen, Sirius’s tongue pulling the head of that magnificent cock inside his gorgeous mouth. And fuck, Charlie should have known that watching them together would be this good. The way Sirius’s eyelids flutter closed in relief, the way Remus moans long and low above him. They love each other; they love this. After all these years.

“Head up, baby,” Charlie says to Remus. He gives his smacks a rhythm now, so that Sirius can suck in time with Charlie’s hand. “Eyes open, right on me while he sucks you.”

Hard for the sweat breaking out on the small of Remus’s back, hard for the scent rising from the silver fur of his thighs. Another tremor shudders through him.

Hard for the human mind inside him, falling back, letting go.

“Keep still for me, baby.” Another tremor, as Remus tries to hold back the urge to thrust down into Sirius’s mouth, away from the blows, everything in his body saying _move,_ and yet he doesn’t. Sweat has broken out all over him now, shining on his forehead, on his upper lip, on the small of his back. Charlie places one hand between Remus’s shoulder blades, still spanking him with the other. Remus’s whole body has gone hard, the tremors coming faster now, breaking over Remus again and again until Remus is simply trembling, one long unending tremor as Sirius sucks him off and Charlie spanks him. Trembling yet holding still as his body tries to process all the stimulation.

Hard for the edge. “Drop your head,” Charlie commands. “Take Sirius’s cock.”

Remus groans and does it, falling on Sirius’s prick and sliding down the shaft all at once.

“Fuck his mouth,” Charlie says to Sirius, and to Remus: “Don’t move.” He spanks him again, _again_ as they suck each other. Sirius groans, and Charlie feels the groan pass into Remus, shivering up his spine beneath Charlie’s left hand. He spanks him and spanks him, Sirius sucks him, hips jerking as he fucks Remus’s mouth, and harder and faster, and all of Remus is shaking now, his body coming undone, overwhelmed by so much sensation.

Then the sounds begin: moans erupting from deep inside him, breaking out as his mouth loses the suction on Sirius’s prick because the sounds are forcing themselves free of his body. Remus shakes with his sounds, with the sensation of his body as it slips free from his grasp and goes beyond him, taking him over, becoming him, just body, and then Sirius gives a muffled cry and comes in Remus’s mouth. Sirius loses his rhythm and Charlie gives up trying to spank in rhythm and just hits, as fast and hard as he can, both palms burning and his cock wild with the intimacy of this power. Sirius’s hips shudder and rise off the rug as he spurts, Charlie hits Remus again, again, and Remus—

Goes over the edge. Sirius’ prick slips from his mouth, saliva and come spill from his mouth, long deep sounds breaking from deep inside him. He is shaking uncontrollably now. Charlie wraps his arms around Remus’s chest, steadying him, and puts his head close to Remus’s sweat-slick head, and whispers to him: “Come for us now, baby. Come.”

Remus does. He comes shaking in Charlie’s arms, his legs giving way. He comes straight down Sirius’s throat, hips jerking above Sirius’s head as Charlie holds him up, his sweat-slicked back tight against Charlie’s chest.

Sirius holds Remus in his mouth a minute longer, his eyes closed, an expression of calm Charlie has rarely seen settling across his fine features, softening them. Then Sirius opens his eyes, reaching up to take Remus’s softened cock in his hand and freeing his mouth. “So good, love,” he whispers.

Charlie lowers Remus, who is still shaking, onto his side on the rug.

“Spin around, Padfoot,” Charlie says softly.

Sirius nods. He spoons in behind Remus, nuzzling the back of his neck as he wraps his arms around him. Charlie stands up then. Straddling the two of them, he unzips his jeans and finally, finally, takes out his cock. Remus’s eyes are closed, but at the sound of the zipper Sirius stops kissing his neck and looks up. His eyes meet Charlie’s, then drop to Charlie’s cock in his hand. Then Sirius looks up at Charlie again, and, slowly and deliberately, opens his mouth.

God, yes. Charlie conjures lube in his burning palm and with a few quick strokes, brings himself right to the brink. His balls draw up and he drops to kneeling. Aiming his cock, he shoots toward Sirius’s mouth. Sirius arches up for it, taking the spunk on his tongue, eyes wide and happy and open, mouth wide open, all for Charlie. Charlie bucks forward, the orgasm crashing through him as all the built-up power of the scene releases through the arcs of his come.

“Holy Christ, Padfoot,” he says when he can speak again, laughing a bit as Sirius pulls Charlie down and kisses him deeply. Charlie tastes himself and Remus on Sirius’s tongue.

He climbs off of them, a little shaky himself now, sitting up long enough to pull off his boots and Vanish his jeans. Then he lies down on Remus’s other side. Remus’s eyes are still closed, and Charlie tentatively rests his hand on Remus’s shoulder. Remus makes a nuzzling motion with his head, and Charlie shuffles in closer, tucking his head under Remus’s chin. God, Remus feels good against him. He breathes in the scent of his skin, pressing his palm against Remus’s warm chest. Then Sirius’s hand comes around Remus from behind and rests on top of Charlie’s. They lie quietly like that for a while, with Remus nestled in between them, their hands pressed against him

After a while Charlie raises himself up on one elbow and strokes Remus’s arm. “You doing okay?” he asks.

Remus opens his eyes and turns his head up to Charlie, but his gaze gets lost on the way. He’s high on his own body and nowhere close to coming down. Charlie glances down at Sirius, who props himself up on his elbow too.

“Moony,” Sirius croons, stroking Remus’s arm. “Moony, hold my hand.” Remus obediently tightens his grip around the fingers Sirius slides in his, and as he does, Charlie sees Remus come back a little—not the defenses, but the love, filling up his eyes from the inside. It seems such a private moment that Charlie almost turns away, but then Remus does look at Charlie, including him in the intimacy. Then he closes his eyes again.

Charlie and Sirius recline on either side of him, chatting and stroking Remus as he dozes.

“I had meant,” Charlie says, “to be at the Burrow two hours ago.”

“Molly know you’re here?” Sirius asks.

“She doesn’t even know I’m in England. I told her Monday; I’d planned to surprise her by showing up today, but I—” Charlie breaks off, feeling shy all of a sudden.

Sirius cocks his head at Charlie. “What?”

“I’d like to stay here tonight. With you two. If that’s okay.”

“Of course.” The slate-gray eyes crinkle up into a smile as Sirius reaches over to caress Charlie’s stubbled cheek. “We’d love it. And when Remus finally comes down from wherever you’ve launched him, he’ll cook for us. He’s a fantastic cook; good as your mum.”

Remus mumbles something from the rug.

“What, love?”

“Charlie. If you’ll stay....” Remus trails off.

“He’s really wrecked,” Charlie murmurs.

Remus opens one eye. “It will be a party,” he continues, drowsy yet perfectly articulate. “What Sirius wants. One I’d like, too.”

Charlie kisses Remus lightly on the temple. “I’m glad. Let’s all have a kip first, then.”

Sirius Summons a blanket and pillows, and they resettle themselves. As Charlie snuggles in, Remus’s hand finds his, warm fingers wrapping around his callused ones.

“Thank you, Charlie,” Remus whispers.

“Any time,” Charlie replies.

After which he can practically _hear_ Sirius thinking beside him, _Then how about the two of you fuck me after dinner_?

And then it’s quiet again.

~end~


End file.
